Dark Paradise
by Bride of Spock
Summary: Angelina misses Fred desperately, but can George pull her from the bottomless black pit that is grief? On hiatus.
1. Until Now

** A/N: I never know what to say in author's notes. Hi? XD Yes. Angelina and George. So...enjoy! Please review!**

I'm burying my face in his old shirts, breathing in his familiar smell, wishing he was here. I can't imagine life without him. Everyone says I have to.

I wander round my apartment, singing to myself. There's a knock at the door. I pull my dressing gown on and tie it tight, suffocating my stomach, but I don't care. I don't care about anything much, not since Fred was taken from me.

It's George at the door. "You look awful," I say bluntly. He winces like I punched him. I drove the metaphorical knife deeper into his heart without thinking. "I lost my twin, Angelina," he says. His voice is steady but the hands on my shoulders are not. I am sorry for what I said, but my throat won't work. His image is painful, the replica of Fred. He leads me into my living room, pushing me carefully into a chair.

George makes me a cup of coffee. "Here, you're suffocating," he says softly, loosening the tie of my dressing gown. "You're wearing his pyjamas," he says, even softer.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. I don't know why I'm apologising. It feels right.

"Couldn't sleep either, huh?" George asks.

"What's the time?" I ask, sipping my scalding coffee. "Oh, shit that's hot!"

George was laughing.

"Don't you laugh at me, Fr – George Weasley!"

George's smile slips away slightly, but was replaced within seconds. "It's two am. I heard you singing…"

"Oh Merlin." I've seen enough videos of myself singing drunkenly to realise I was pretty terrible at it.

George smirks. "I thought I'd come check on you anyway. And noooo, Ange, you're a great singer!" I could hear the laugh in his voice.

"Lies," I say, shaking my head at him disbelievingly.

We stay up all night, swapping anecdotes, stories, tales of old times. Occasionally we breach upon the touchy subject of his twin, but George always manages to redirect the conversation. At around seven am, George stands and stretches. "This has been great, Ange," he says. "But we drank up all your coffee and I think I'll have a nap…"

I hear the muttered half of his sentence. " – if I ever get to sleep again…"

I don't want him to go.

"You can sleep with me, if you want! Urm…I mean on the couch…not with..yeah." Oh Merlin, that could have gone so much better. George flushes pink in the dim light. "Thanks."

He doesn't get to sleep. I lay down on the adjacent couch (though I hadn't slept properly since Fred's funeral, it was nice to lay in comfort) and observe him as a birdwatcher might observe a specimen. Being Fred's twin, George is obviously exactly like him in physical appearance (which means I've seen George naked, oh dear). But I'd never considered Fred and George Weasley two completely different people.

Until now.


	2. Gingerbread

_Dear Diary,_

_What do I do? I lost Fred. Now I'm grieving, grieving, grieving, in a black hole of depression pulling me down with infinite gravity. _

_And I seem to think George is the only one who can pull me out._

_Love as usual,_

_Angelina xox_

I always feel better after writing in my diary. But not today.

George left at around nine. He said he wanted the comforts of his own home, surrounded by memories…

I sigh. I did get some sleep this morning - an hour. Yay me. The therapist will be proud. Maybe I'll get a sticker. I'm ashamed to say that cheered me up a little.

I walk down to Fortesque's and get a whole load of ice cream. It's the only thing that would calm my depressed body long enough for me to get something done. Feeling fat but happy, I return home and bake gingerbread. Yes for me climbing from the pit of depression. Then I notice three gingerbread people.

Their hands had once all been linked. The person in the middle has a huge crack down its body, and has shrunk beneath the two beside it, whose hands were now together. "George...Fred...me..." I whisper, tracing my finger over them. I give myself a shake. "I'm seeing things in gingerbread." As a punishment, I eat them first, and banish all thoughts of Fred from my brain, heart, and head. He would have wanted me to be strong.

Half an hour later, I'm sobbing uncontrollably into my pillow. Forget being strong, it's not good to bottle up your feelings, right? Right?

I'm clawing hopelessly at the walls but the hole drags me deeper... Someone knocks at the door. I feel drunk as I stumble off my bed, to the door, tripping over my own feet and having to hold onto the door to stay upright. I finally throw open the door. It's Fred. "Fred? Is that you?" I ask dreamily. I'm not too sure if I'm dreaming or not, but I couldn't care less at the moment. Fred steps forward slowly, but he's fading. The image is rippling like waves on a river...he's saying words I cannot hear...

"Angelina...Ange...please wake up...please." Soft fingers were tucking my hair behind my ears, stroking my forehead, tracing my lips... I sat up. "Fred?" I say blearily, searching for the angel that visited me. George comes into focus. He hurts, bad. His blue eyes are deep pools, opening up his soul to me. I reach up and put my hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I whisper. Then his lips are on mine and his hands in my hair and this is bad but feels too good... "Angelina...stop, we can't...I can't..." George looks overwhelmed. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. The door slams and I'm left alone with a fresh pile of guilt.


End file.
